


To Love and Be Loved

by giddytf2



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Communication Failure, Crying Jaskier | Dandelion, Embedded Images, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geraskier feels up the wazoo, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, OTP Feels, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-S1, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28406766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddytf2/pseuds/giddytf2
Summary: He raised his lute's strap over his head and placed the precious instrument on the stage floor. His feet moved on their own volition towards Geralt. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. His golden, resplendent outfit seemed too small and too big for his body at the same time. He felt fire billowing up in his chest. It threatened to consume him from inside out, to burst from him and raze everything in its path to ashes.It was such ravenous anger. Raw anger.Anger was the only explanation he had for the damp searing of his eyes.It had absolutely nothing to do with his stupid eyes seeing Geralt stand tall and attentive, or his stupid mind believing the shine of those amber eyes washope.________________________Jaskier is with Countess de Stael again, singing for her, looking pretty for her. But when a certain white-haired witcher attends one of her banquets, Jaskier must confront him--and his enduring feelings for him.(Originally a Twitter fic at@giddytf2, edited and reformatted for easier reading here on AO3!)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Countess de Stael
Comments: 7
Kudos: 149





	1. To Love and Be Loved

**Author's Note:**

> This is a post-season 1 story, and my imagining of what would happen within a geraskier context when Geralt found Jaskier again in season 2. I cast the lovely Gwendoline Christie as Countess de Stael. 💛 
> 
> This is the story's theme song: [Celine Dion & Barbara Streisand - Tell Him](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_w7NAdpw3B0). 
> 
> **SPOILER!** Skip this part if you don't want to be spoiled about Jaskier/Countess de Stael in this story: at most, Jaskier kisses her a few times in two scenes. Geraskier is definitely the endgame here.

Throughout the first three songs of his setlist, Jaskier was sure he was hallucinating. He had to be. There was no other explanation for what he was seeing.

There was no other possible explanation for the distinct presence of the amber-eyed, white-haired witcher staring at him.

Geralt was standing to the right of the stage that dominated one wall of the vast banquet hall. The stage faced the long table where Countess de Stael was seated with her honored guests—which meant all Jaskier had to do to ignore Geralt was gaze forward at her. Sing on for her. Smile at her. Stare at her with bright, wide eyes that would persuade everyone present of how much he must adore her.

His fingers plucked and strummed his lute's strings with skill hard-earned from decades of practice and pain. His melodious voice reverberated through the hall.

He sang, and sang.

And his traitorous eyes kept skimming to the right side of the hall. His traitorous body kept swiveling to the same side, like a flower desperately seeking the sunlight.

Geralt always was as dazzling as the sun.

Geralt had been as hot to touch as the sun, too.

Geralt.

_Geralt, you bastard, what are you doing here?_

Fate had to hate Jaskier on a whole new level today, for Geralt to look so bloody gorgeous in that black, bejeweled doublet and skin-tight breeches. The jewels sparkled under the candlelight. The black leather gleamed. Geralt hadn't bothered to button up the doublet, and Jaskier could see the thin, white shirt underneath it. See through the shirt where it stuck to skin.

Many of the guests were staring at Geralt, with wide eyes, with a hint of fear. A swath of fascination. A weight of desire.

Jaskier wanted to seize the tankard from Geralt's grip and hurl it at them. To slam his lute on their heads. To roar instead of sing. To make them stop looking at Geralt, stop _looking_ because Geralt wasn't theirs, Geralt was—

Not his.

Never his.

He'd never had the chance.

He kept forgetting that. Damn fool that he was, that he still was, he kept forgetting that Geralt hated him.

He spun away from the right side of the stage yet again. He sang, and he ignored the throbbing of his chest. The break of his voice when he sang of shattered hearts. It wasn't his heart he was singing of—how could it? He was here in this opulent manor with the Countess, wasn't he? He was her favorite again, wasn't he?

He was gazed at with warm eyes again. He was tightly embraced in the night again. He was safe again.

He was loved again.

He was. He really was.

He could still see Geralt from the corner of his eyes. Geralt, leaning back against the stone half wall without a care in the world. Geralt, long hair still tied in that half-up, half-down style.

Geralt, still staring at him, as if nothing else existed.

Where had this Geralt been on that damn mountain over a year ago? Where had this Geralt been, while the cruel, selfish one Jaskier had faced spat those rage-filled words at him?

This Geralt wasn't a hallucination. This Geralt was real. There was only one Geralt in all creation.

And that meant this adorned, quiet Geralt was one and the same with that cruel, selfish Geralt. That meant this Geralt must hate him, even now.

The witcher had to be here by coincidence. Or, by sheer bad luck for Jaskier, been invited by the Countess.

It wasn't her fault. Not once, in all his months here, had he mentioned Geralt to her. Like everyone else, she knew he'd travelled the Continent for at least six years with Geralt before gracing her doorstep. But she'd never asked him for details, much less for stories. He was grateful for that.

Everyone knew better than to ask him about Geralt after he'd vehemently stated at an earlier banquet that he completely, utterly refused to sing any songs about the blasted White Wolf and his blasted adventures.

Why did everyone think his entire existence revolved around Geralt?

That wasn't true. Not at all. Not in the slightest.

He was going to prove it tonight.

He bowed and smiled like he always did during earnest applause, like the one he was receiving right now after yet another grand show. He winked at the crowd. He blew a kiss at the Countess.

Geralt didn't join in the ovation. Geralt was a stationary figure with an empty tankard in hand, still staring at him with those fierce amber eyes.

He had to rip his traitorous eyes away from Geralt once more. To look at the Countess so the damn witcher wasn't all that he saw.

But she was looking at Geralt.

She was looking at Geralt and her large, silvery eyes gleamed with _something_ and he—he had to—

He raised his lute's strap over his head and placed the precious instrument on the stage floor. His feet moved on their own volition towards Geralt. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. His golden, resplendent outfit seemed too small and too big for his body at the same time. He felt fire billowing up in his chest. It threatened to consume him from inside out, to burst from him and raze everything in its path to ashes.

It was such ravenous anger. Raw anger.

Anger was the only explanation he had for the damp searing of his eyes.

It had absolutely nothing to do with his stupid eyes seeing Geralt stand tall and attentive, or his stupid mind believing the shine of those amber eyes was _hope_.

Jaskier halted in his tracks in front of Geralt with an arm's breadth of space between them. His nails dug into his palms. His breaths tremored every few exhalations. He pursed his lips.

Geralt's unblinking gaze upon his face scorched him to the marrow.

Geralt's lips parted.

"No," Jaskier snarled, and it was worthy of a cruel, selfish witcher's spat rage.

Geralt's lips slowly pressed into a thin, silent line.

Jaskier didn't know what Geralt was feeling, or thinking. He kept staring at the skin beneath Geralt's eyes.

"I don't care why you're here."

Geralt said nothing to that.

"I—" Jaskier inwardly cursed the momentary tremble of his voice. "I don't care what you have to say to me." He sucked in a breath. "I don't _care_ about you."

Geralt remained silent.

"I care about Countess de Stael. I care about her. And I'm—" He hated his own body so much in this moment, for the lump growing in his throat, the tension in his neck. For the catch in his voice. "I'm content here. With her."

Still, Geralt remained silent and stared at his face.

He drew in another razing breath. Then another. And another.

Then, digging his nails into his palms to the point of actual pain, he dragged his eyes up to meet Geralt's. He had to draw in another breath, a deep, burning one, upon contact.

Those amber eyes were still so beautiful. So beautiful and unique like their wordless possessor.

"Why are you even here, Geralt?" He gritted his teeth, then rasped, "You wished for life to take me out of your hands, didn't you? That it would be a _blessing_ for you?"

A muscle jumped in Geralt's lower jaw. Geralt stared on and on at his heated face, into his blazing eyes.

"You got what you wished for, witcher. You should be thankful."

_But I'm not. I'll never be thankful for anything that took you away from me, gorgeous garroter._

He said nothing more to Geralt. He said nothing of how he'd inadvertently revealed he recalled every spiteful word.

He didn't wait for a response from Geralt. He tore his eyes away from that familiar, handsome face he certainly never dreamed about here.

Stiff-spined, he stormed across the banquet hall to Countess de Stael's table. To the divine beauty who towered six inches in height over him. That didn't hinder him from gracefully drawing her head down for a gentle kiss. This was far from the first time they'd kissed. By now, their turbulent on-off relationship was rabid gossip in numerous courts. No one blinked or gasped in shock. Lightning didn't strike him dead.

He felt Geralt's stare upon him the whole time.

"Julian."

The Countess stroked his cheek. Murmured his name again as a question he refused to acknowledge, to answer. He closed his eyes. Pressed his hand over hers. Turned his face to nuzzle it, and kissed its smooth palm.

He didn't sense Geralt's stare on him anymore.

He opened his eyes. Glanced over his shoulder. Where Geralt had stood, all he saw was the empty tankard abandoned on the stone half wall. It could easily have been anyone's.

He could easily have been hallucinating Geralt after all.

"So," the Countess said with her resonant voice, "that was Geralt of Rivia. Your witcher."

Jaskier swallowed down the stubborn lump in his throat before turning his head to gaze up at her. That gleam was back in her eyes, that made him want to cower in a corner and not be _seen_.

He pasted on a nonchalant smile.

"Oh no, he was never, ever mine."

Now he understood how certain words could become jagged glass in one's throat and on one's tongue.

Now he remembered all over again how Geralt looked up-close, how he moved, how he smelled.

He remembered.

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊

Jaskier was drunk. He surely had to be, after gulping down glass after glass of wine during the banquet. The wine had made him warm inside, but it wasn't the good sort of warmth. It was the bad sort. The sort that made his chest ache, that made his mind spin with bitter memories.

The sort that filled his skull with images and sounds and smells and _sensations_ of Geralt to the brim.

Why was his bloody stupid brain thinking about the witcher now? When the Countess was right here in this sumptuous bed with him? Gazing at him with those silvery, warm eyes? Lying between his spread thighs, so handsome, so much stronger and taller than him, with all that long, near-white hair a wavy crown around her head on the plump pillow?

Why did Geralt have to clomp back into his life without so much as a word?

Why did his chest _ache_ so much?

The Countess' dark pink lips were full and soft. He liked kissing them. He liked how they felt against his. He liked how they quirked up at the ends when she smiled, as if she was trying to restrain her amusement but failed.

She only smiled that way at him, when they were alone.

Geralt had smiled that way at him, when they were alone and the stars in the black, velvet sky above were watching them in return and he'd wished they could stay in that moment forever.

But the gods never listened to him. They didn't give a toss about _shit-shovelers_ like him.

"Julian."

He leaned down. Molded his lips to hers again, his eyes shut. He carded his fingers through her hair that always seemed to shimmer silver in the candlelight.

" _Julian_."

Being pushed back, gentle as it was, by the Countess' large hand on his shoulder was still a shock. This was the first time, in all their years of intimate acquaintance, that she had pushed him away in bed. That "no" had resounded so plainly in his given name, when it'd always been plainly, unmistakably "yes".

His breath froze in his lungs. He gazed down at her with wide eyes. Then he frowned with bafflement. She didn't look angry or upset at all. She looked—mournful.

She looked as if something splendid had come to an end, and that it was inevitable.

"What's wrong, darling?" His lips quivered into a tiny smile. "Why are you sad?"

Her lips quirked up.

It wasn't a smile of mirth. It was a rueful smile, a prelude to the assailment of jagged glass that would lacerate the aching thing in his chest.

"I will not be used as a distraction from your broken heart."

Her tone was benevolent, her eyes solemn. Her hand caressed his cheek.

She might as well have flayed him from head to toes with a blunt knife.

He scrambled off her. He sat on his bare heels on the bed beside her, his shirt and breeches rumpled, his body gone cold and trembling. He gaped at her. His parted lips began to tremble with the rest of him.

He grabbed her closest hand, her right, with both of his. He brought it to his face and kissed it hard, then again, and didn't let it go.

"You're my beloved muse." He prided himself on the steadiness of his voice. "My flawless vision. My celestial, thunder-darting blessing."

She sat up in one elegant movement. Her dark blue dress had slipped off her broad shoulders, exposing fair and smooth skin. Her hair flowed down her straight back.

Her eyes were still solemn, still so warm with fondness for him.

She flayed him again.

"I was," she murmured.

Slowly, she withdrew her hand from his. Her hand slid down the length of his thigh to his knee. Then it slipped away to rest on her thigh above waves of silk.

In his shame, he couldn't bear to look at her anymore, but he also couldn't bear to turn his whole body away from her. He averted his searing face from her. His head was abruptly as heavy as the world, and he let it dip, his chin almost touching his collarbone.

The broken thing in his chest was wailing. He thought it might have been wailing for at least a year now.

His searing eyes saw nothing.

"I never thought I would see this day, Julian," she said softly, with the exquisite pain of the sharpest blade. "You always bounced back, whenever things lulled between us. A fun game, for us, where our hearts were never on the table but we still found comfort in each other."

Jaskier said nothing.

"But then, I hadn't known that long before we met, you had already given your heart away."

Jaskier stayed silent. His eyes seared and welled—and still, he clearly saw that isolated corner in that tavern in Posada. He saw the sublime being who sat there.

"You gave it to the witcher. And he broke it."

It was all Jaskier could do to breathe. To not drown in the precious memory of seeing Geralt for the first time.

A memory was all it'd ever be now.

"He couldn't have broken it," he rasped, "if he never knew I'd given it to him."

He'd thought the uttered words would blow a hole in his chest. That the confession of this agonizing fear come true would kill him faster than a lightning bolt.

He didn't keel over dead.

Instead the words sapped the trembling from his cold, limp body. An infected wound—lanced.

"And if he does know, now?"

Jaskier blinked hard. He ignored the two, wet rivulets that trailed down his cheeks as he raised his head to gaze at the Countess.

"I didn't invite him to the banquet," she added, sitting back against the bed's cushioned headboard.

"Oh," he whispered.

"I found him lingering outside the banquet hall. I offered him a room for the night."

"Oh," Jaskier murmured, blinking again.

"And he accepted."

Jaskier stared at her with uncomprehending eyes.

"After I told him that you're staying here. That you're not going anywhere else."

He stared, and stared, and he—he couldn't understand what she was saying, what she was implying. He couldn't—believe.

He couldn't _hope_ , not after the mountain, not after that vicious cleaving of everything he was from Geralt.

All hope did was hurt him so much in the end.

The Countess let out a long, low sigh. Her eyes crinkled with more fondness.

"If it is any consolation, sweet one: like you, my heart belongs to someone else."

Jaskier blinked once, twice. She was—in love with someone else? All this time?

He waited for the stab of jealousy.

It never came.

All he felt about the news was relief. Pure relief, that he didn't have to wear a smiling mask in front of others anymore. That he didn't have to pretend anymore.

Pure relief—swamped by an avalanche of guilt.

He'd used her to futilely try getting over Geralt. He'd used her to nurse his broken heart that wouldn't heal, and she'd known all these months.

He lowered eyes that stung anew. She touched his knee. Rested her hand on it. He rested his hand on hers, and found himself able to give her small smile when she weaved their fingers.

He found himself staring at her handsome face. At her furrowed brows, and her glazed eyes, and the despondent quirk of her lips.

"He doesn't know," Jaskier said, tightening his fingers around hers.

Her lips quirked up a little more.

"No." She honed her eyes upon him. "Not yet."

If he was one to coax with his innumerable words, the Countess was one to use a choice few to bludgeon a point into someone's brain. He loved her for it.

He loved Geralt for it.

He closed his eyes. He breathed.

Yes, he still loved Geralt. He was tired of pretending he didn't.

"He's in the east wing. In your favorite room."

His eyes snapped open. He glanced at her, and he had to smile softly at her amused smirk. Of course she would assign that room to Geralt: it was his favorite for it had a huge fireplace—and its tapestries featured fluffy wolves.

It would be an apt room in which to confront Geralt again.

If Geralt even acknowledged his presence after what he'd said earlier today.

Jaskier raised the Countess' hand to his lips for the third time. He kissed it with a tender peck.

She accepted it for the thank you it was.

He didn't feel sad when she withdrew her hand this time. He didn't feel sad at the knowledge this was the very last time he would fall into bed with her, not when he'd had so many content years with her.

Their paths would cross again. Gods willing, they wouldn't be alone then.

Putting on his gold doublet and leather boots then walking out of the Countess' bedroom was a distant, hazy experience. His senses regained their clarity as he stood outside said room, his head tilted back, his eyes shut.

His doublet was unbuttoned. His hair was a tousled mess. His shirt was unlaced, exposing part of his hirsute chest.

If any of the servants were to see him now, there would be no doubt for them what he'd been up to with the Countess in her bedroom.

Geralt would have no doubt either.

Jaskier blew out a tremulous breath at the ceiling.

He didn't run his fingers through his tousled hair. He didn't lace up his shirt, or button up his doublet.

He wanted to be seen.

He wanted to be _seen_ by Geralt.

He wanted Geralt to know what he'd been missing for twenty years.

He stared ahead in silence. He began walking.

Jaskier encountered no one else on his plodding journey through the manor's many lit, carpeted passageways. It was a time for slumber, for minds to quieten and hearts to rest. A time for easy silence and nostalgia.

It was snowing outside.

He approached one of the tall windows. He gripped its sill with a hand, his knuckles white.

It was snowing heavily. The trees in the courtyard he gazed upon were devoid of leaves, laden with the falling snow. The grassy ground was just as pristine.

Underneath all that ice, life was lying dormant. Waiting for the sun.

He raised his eyes to the black, velvet sky. To the moon.

It was so cold and dark now—but the winter wouldn't last.

No matter how cold and dark and dismal the world could be, the winter always passed. The sun would rise again in the grey sky and cleanse it with gold heat.

The life that had been dormant, that had never gone away or lost an iota of its perseverance, would rise again with the sun, more vibrant than it had ever been. Blooming in a myriad of iridescent colors. Bursting with joy at being free to thrive, at last.

He smiled at the moon.

The moon was, after all, simply the glowing mask the sun wore while it bided its time to return to its full glory.

His steps became tottering ones the nearer he was to that commodious room in the east wing, to its imposing wooden door.

It wasn't wise to get too close to the sun.

But wisdom never took him to immeasurable heights of ecstasy, or exquisite pain, or soul-rending sorrow. It never made him feel alive. Never made him believe that life, so fleeting, was worth living.

Love did.

He'd already been burned by its flames. It was greater than the cold. It was worth being consumed by those flames again, if it meant he wouldn't be cold anymore. If he could be close to the sun once more.

He stood in front of that imposing door with its brass knob and filigree carvings.

He parted his dry lips. He tried to call for Geralt. To speak.

In a time when he needed them most, his mellifluous voice and innumerable words failed him. Nothing flowed from his mouth.

The name of the brightest star in his sky dwelled in his aching chest, unwilling to leave its moon-mask.

He sucked in a long breath that shook his body. He raised both hands and pressed them flat on the burnished surface. His head fell forward. He pressed his forehead to the door too. He squeezed his eyes shut.

He breathed, and breathed, and he didn't know how long he stood there. He didn't know when he whispered Geralt's name.

"Geralt."

It must have been mere seconds later that the brass knob turned with a deafening click. With a gasp, Jaskier staggered back from the door. He pressed a palm to his pounding chest.

How did Geralt approach the door without a sound? How did Geralt know he was there?

The door seemed to swing open in slow motion as Jaskier was struck by a breath-robbing thought: Geralt hadn't approached the door by the time he arrived.

Geralt had already been standing behind it as he stood on the other side.

Waiting for him to come closer.

Waiting for him.

Waiting for him—and using those heightened witcher senses to seek the unique sounds of his human body. To hear his approaching heartbeat, long before he stood outside this room.

Had Geralt stood there with one hand on the knob? Had his forehead been pressed on the door too?

Jaskier would never know. He didn't need to know, not when he was greeted by the unparalleled vision of Geralt in only those black, skin-tight breeches and leather boots, nude from the waist up. Geralt's hair was still tied in its customary style. Geralt's skin gleamed golden.

Geralt's large amber eyes stared at him, and under their golden shine, the chill receded from his body. Within his still aching chest, something was blooming. Something that had lain dormant under thin ice for months.

Something that yearned to be free. To thrive, at last.

Those amber eyes skimmed down his rumpled clothes, then back up to his face. Their possessor said nothing about his disheveled appearance. He didn't know whether to be grateful for that, or grab Geralt's shoulders and shake him in his frustration.

_See me._

_See me, damn you._

Geralt stepped back. Turned away from him, and sauntered into the room without a word.

He stared after Geralt in similar silence, his breaths uneven, unable to sense the floor beneath his feet.

He stared—and he could, because Geralt had left the door wide open in invitation.

He drew in a breath that hitched in his throat. He lifted his right foot off the floor, and stepped across the threshold into the room. He kept his eyes on Geralt as he closed the door behind him. He told himself it was wise to lean back against the door, to stay where he was.

It was wise to not rush too soon towards the sun, lest he burned to ashes.

The lit fireplace was crackling and incandescent. The light of the flames gilded Geralt in flickering gold that paled compared to Geralt's heavy-lidded eyes.

The ten feet of space between them was a gulf.

"You didn't look me in the eye."

Geralt's broad shoulders were slumped. His large hands were loose at his sides. He stood facing Jaskier, and Jaskier had to lock his knees to stay standing upon hearing Geralt's low, gravelly voice.

Gods, how he'd dreamed of hearing it once more.

How ashen his fantasies and memories of Geralt were, compared to the reality of the gorgeous, perfect witcher in the flesh.

"What?"

He ignored the quaver of his own voice.

"You didn't look me in the eye," Geralt reiterated, eyes crinkled. "When you said those things to me."

He stared across the gulf between them with blank, wide eyes. It took many seconds for the words to sink deep into his dazed brain. But when they did, that old fire—that had simmered for a year—billowed up for the second time alongside that other warmth inside his chest.

Geralt knew he had—lied. Geralt knew from the start he'd lied to his face in the banquet hall.

Why was it that Geralt could always see through his masks, his walls? Why was it that Geralt could see all his weaknesses, but not his strengths—his love for this crotchety witcher?

It was unfair, so unfair that he couldn't see through Geralt's masks and walls at all. So unfair, that Geralt's heart remained such a locked mystery to him.

So _unfair_ , that it might be locked to him forever, while his was his most priceless gift shattered without a thought.

That fire—that ravenous, raw anger—surged through his veins into trembling muscles. He shoved himself off the door. Stormed up to Geralt with his head high, shoulders squared, hands in fists at his sides. He stopped short of slamming into Geralt, a hand's space between them.

Geralt didn't flinch at all. He stood still, his hands and shoulders loose, his damn eyes still crinkled as they gazed into Jaskier's blazing ones.

What, did the bloody cantankerous berk think this was _funny?_

"I am so fucking—" His fists clenched. " _Furious_ with you."

Anyone else, even the Countess, would have reared back in genuine fear at his harsh snarl. It was extremely rare for him to let his rage manifest this way. But when he did, he did it with the same fervor he had whenever he sang.

He did it with all his heart, broken or not.

"Who do you think you are, just— _sneaking_ back into my life like this? After what you said to me?!"

It had to be his imagination that Geralt's features softened with remorse.

" _You're_ the one who wished me gone, Geralt! And I walked away, didn't I, just like you wanted!"

Geralt's mouth started to open. Jaskier whipped a forefinger up into the air in fierce warning at him, lips pursed pale.

"No!" Jaskier growled. " _You_ listen to me now!"

Geralt shut his mouth without protest. His amber eyes were still crinkled, and Jaskier didn't understand why. Why were they crinkled at all, as if Geralt was trying to restrain a smile? If it wasn't amusement, what else could it be?

By Melitele's chin mole, it couldn't possibly be _happiness_.

"I changed the tides for you! My songs ripped the scales from eyes so they could _see_ you!"

He flailed his arms as he ranted, and Geralt didn't seem to care if he was smacked on the arm or chest. Geralt stared at him as if nothing else existed. As if—he was all that needed to exist for Geralt.

It couldn't be. It just couldn't.

"I walked beside you, and cleaned you! I cleaned your wounds! And your swords! Your clothes! Your—body!"

His traitorous eyes skimmed down Geralt's bulging, hairy chest and rippled abdomen. Then his rage billowed and consumed him again, and he glared at Geralt's handsome, stupid face.

"I _served_ you hand and foot! I walked for miles and _miles_ across the Continent with you, and I didn't care if my feet blistered and bled, or if I starved so you could eat more! I didn't care about the wounds and scars monsters gave me!"

He sucked in a hot, shaky breath. Another, before he spoke again.

"But I did care when we were apart. I'd sing about the White Wolf and his amazing adventures, and I could tell myself you were there with me."

His mouth was turning traitor on him too—but he couldn't stop it.

"I did care, even when I was with the Countess. With anyone else."

He couldn't stop his eyes from searing again, either.

"I did care, Geralt, when you said those things to me on the mountain—and looked me in the eye the whole time."

Geralt was a tall mass of colorful blobs to his sight. He blinked hard, and he glared, and bared his teeth.

"And you—you just— _reduced_ me. To _NOTHING!_ "

He didn't hold back his strength in the hard pound of his fist on the left side of Geralt's chest. It was like punching a stone wall. Geralt didn't even grunt.

But he saw the bobbing of Geralt's throat. He saw the remorse was real.

He couldn't stop the torrent of words from his mouth, his heart. His shattered heart—that was healing with each freed word.

"I gave you twenty years of my life!" He pounded both fists on Geralt's chest. Geralt let him. "Maybe those years mean nothing to a long-lived witcher! But they're _years_ to me, Geralt! Years of my short life I'll never get back!"

Geralt's throat bobbed again. He said nothing.

Jaskier panted. Pressed his hands flat on Geralt's chest. Pressed his forehead to it, and squeezed wet eyes shut, sending fresh trails down his face.

"And I'd do everything all over again," he whispered. "Because I'm a bloody lovesick, pathetic fool, and I'll take whatever you give me if it means being with you."

_I don't just care about you._

_I love you, Geralt of Rivia._

_I always will._

He sucked in short, tremulous breaths. He swallowed down a lump in his throat, then the next that formed.

Geralt didn't move.

Geralt still said nothing.

Jaskier clenched his hands into weak fists on Geralt's rising and falling chest. He couldn't help rubbing his forehead on Geralt's warm skin, even as he suffered.

This was a mistake. He shouldn't have come here at all. He should have stayed away, made a clean break, and never, ever sang or _thought_ about Geralt again, and he would have been fine, been content, been—

He shoved himself away from Geralt. He swiveled around on wobbly legs.

And Geralt seized his waist with those large, powerful hands. Spun him around. Gripped him even tighter around his waist—and pulled him snug to that muscular, sun-hot body from chest to thighs.

In his shock, his flailing hands landed on Geralt's burly arms—and stayed there.

He panted erratically. Shivered in Geralt's clasp, and didn't know if it was from the shock of being manhandled so easily, or the shock of being manhandled so easily by _Geralt_.

Gods, he'd forgotten how _strong_ Geralt was.

But he was also strong. He could free himself.

If he wished to.

He tightened his grasp on Geralt's biceps. He gazed with wide eyes into Geralt's amber ones—and he realized why they were crinkled. It wasn't amusement. It never was.

Against the odds, it truly was happiness. At seeing him again, even as he raged and ranted.

His breath snagged deep in his chest when he felt Geralt's hand brushing his cheek. When he felt a callused thumb brush the damp skin under his eye.

Was he dreaming? Was he actually in his own room, passed out from all that wine—

"And I," Geralt said, "am so furious with you."

Jaskier blinked. In another life, another world, he would be raging again. Demanding to know what Geralt could possibly be furious about when _he_ was the wronged one here.

But cruel, selfish words had separated them over a year ago.

Cruel, selfish words had no place here.

Jaskier stayed silent. He saw Geralt's features soften more, and it was a remarkable sight. He felt Geralt's gentle thumb on his cheek like a ray of sunshine after a storm.

"I never knew what fear truly was," Geralt murmured. "Until you."

Jaskier stared at Geralt, enthralled.

"For decades, I was—content to be alone. To be reassured that when I died, be it on another sword or in a monster's maw, no one would care. No one would—hurt. Then you—" Geralt paused. Swallowed visibly, then said, " _You_ had to strut into my life like it was yours to keep—"

Geralt cut himself off. Lowered his crinkled eyes, then huffed out a brief laugh, shaking his head once.

"And it was. It really is."

Jaskier bit his lower lip. He was glad Geralt was holding him tight. His trembling legs weren't doing a very good job of keeping him on his feet.

"Yennefer is bound to me by my wish to the djinn. My path will always cross with hers, in some way or another, until one of us is dead. But _you_ —" Geralt's brows lowered in an intense frown. "Nothing binds you to me." Geralt closed his eyes. "Nothing stops you from leaving me."

Jaskier's chest throbbed for a very different reason now.

_You oaf. You silly oaf._

_I never wanted to leave you._

He bit his lip harder.

_I've been bound to you from the very moment I saw you—by my love for you._

_My love._

_My gorgeous, lovely garroter. My enduring summer sun._

Another piece of Jaskier's broken heart healed, followed by more.

"I thought, if I—got it over with," Geralt said, "if I hurt myself before destiny did, it wouldn't be so bad." The huff of brief laughter from Geralt this time was anything but mirthful. "But I was wrong."

Geralt had lowered his hand to hold him around his waist again. To rub his back under his gold doublet.

"It was worse. And it only got worse and worse, the longer you and I were apart."

Geralt was so warm to his touch. So solid, so _real_. This was no dream. This was reality.

"I reckoned that you would return to Countess de Stael."

Jaskier lowered his eyes and curled his lips in an abashed smile. He was rather predictable that way, wasn't he?

"She didn't invite me to the banquet, but—word had spread that you and the Countess were—getting married."

Jaskier's head snapped up. He gaped at Geralt, his lower jaw sagging. What? Had the gossip gone _that_ far off the course these days?

Goodness, the Countess was going to have a great laugh at it.

"So I had to be here. To—" Geralt cleared his throat. "I had to know for sure."

Jaskier wondered what Geralt had wanted to say. He wondered if Geralt felt he had to be here to—stop the wedding.

He felt that warmth in him, that was hot like fire but wasn't fire, blooming in him. It felt immense and breathtaking. It felt like the sun rising high within him.

"I wanted to be wrong. I wanted those rumors to be lies." Geralt gazed into his eyes with tender ones. "Then I walked into the hall. And I heard you sing."

Jaskier drew in a breath that didn't quiver. He stroked the bare, warm skin of Geralt's arm—and reveled in the privilege.

"And how was my singing?"

He prepared himself for that farcical comparison to pie with no filling. Or perhaps a comparison to cake gone splat on the floor. Or worse, an insincere compliment.

He was not prepared for Geralt to drag that callused, gentle thumb across his lower lip.

He was not prepared at all for Geralt to be the master of words now. To take his heart apart again with just eight words—and rebuild it into something mightier. Something that could cradle the sun and always keep it safe.

"I heard you," Geralt rasped. "And I didn't hurt anymore."

Oh, how his witcher had learned to devastate him.

His eyes welled anew, but it wasn't with grief. He saw in his mind Geralt walking down that lit passageway to the banquet hall. He saw how heads turned with wonder as Geralt passed other guests. He saw how sublime Geralt was.

Geralt, in that black, resplendent outfit, standing bold under the grand arched entry of the hall—those beautiful amber eyes widening at his singing.

Geralt, seeing him on the stage, still in disbelief.

Geralt, staring at him from the side of the stage, riveted. Resolute.

Geralt had been gazing at him with love, even then.

His hand quivered as he raised it to touch Geralt's stubbled cheek. He'd touched it many times in the past, when he shaved Geralt.

This was the first time, in their decades of knowing each other, that he touched it as a lover.

Geralt didn't vanish upon contact. Lightning didn't strike either one of them dead. The moon smiled. The snow continued to fall outside. The world continued to exist.

This was real.

Geralt was here.

Geralt was here for _him_.

And Geralt—loved him in return. _Geralt loved him._

"I'm not—" He cleared his throat. His voice stayed husky as he said, "I'm not in love with the Countess. I was once upon a time. But then I had to know you, didn't I?" He breathed through the pinhole that was his throat. "The summer sun to all the fire sparks in the night."

He rolled his eyes. All it did was make his brimming eyes spill.

Geralt's lips quirked up in that restrained smile. That fond smile he had missed so much.

"I've fallen in and out of love with many people, Geralt. With countesses and princes and mages—" He sighed. "But you—"

He brushed his fingers down Geralt's cheeks, with awe that he could. He gazed into amber eyes so focused on him.

"I was eighteen years old when we met in that tavern in Posada. Eighteen years, for me to be born and to grow into a man—just for me to fall for you in a heartbeat."

He bit his lip. Lowered his sore eyes, then raised them again to gaze at Geralt. To look Geralt in the eye as he declared, "The thing is, unlike all the rest—I never fell out of love with you. I don't think I ever will."

Geralt's eyelids flickered over eyes that now glistened.

Jaskier's voice didn't waver. It spoke true even as his lips tremored.

"You're the one, my gorgeous garroter. You're it for me. You're stuck with me now, and the only way I'm leaving you is in a casket. You hear me?"

There that long, vulnerable throat went, bobbing with emotion.

His own eyelids fluttered as Geralt leaned forward to touch their foreheads. The tips of their noses grazed, their lips mere inches apart.

"I'm sorry, Jaskier."

Many would have been horrified at such a response to a heartfelt declaration of love. But Jaskier wasn't just anyone.

Jaskier had waited for a year—for half his lifetime—to hear those two words from Geralt. To know Geralt meant them. To know Geralt said them for all the times he'd hurt Jaskier, inadvertently or not, with actions and words.

To know Geralt hadn't meant the words on the mountain.

As a wordsmith, Jaskier appreciated the power of words. He knew how his songs could affect his audience, how he could make them cheer or cry with their lyrics. He knew—and yet, he was utterly overwhelmed by just these two rasped ones from Geralt. Well, he was only human. His heart was so much more conquerable than most.

But it was safe now—in Geralt's keeping.

He was safe.

He always would be.

His tremoring lips valiantly tried to curve into an elated smile, but he didn't care when they failed. He fought the crumpling of his lower face. He couldn't feel the floor beneath his feet. He was floating. He wasn't shivering. He wasn't cold anymore.

"I'm sorry, too," he whispered wetly, and he felt the words—for all the times he'd hurt Geralt—sink into Geralt. Felt them heal the remaining fractures of Geralt's heart.

It was inevitable, then, that their heads angled in opposite directions. That their parted lips crashed in the narrow, sultry space between their streaked faces.

It wasn't the most elegant kiss, nor the most ardent Jaskier had experienced. It was tear-stained and salt-tinged. It was made awkward by his stupid, crumpling face that wouldn't obey him, that wouldn't let him open his mouth.

It was the sweetest, most precious kiss that he would ever know, that he never wished to end—for it was the very first one with Geralt, the true love of his life.

The first of many, many more to come.

Geralt was the one who broke their kiss. Jaskier didn't blame him, since breathing was essential to their continued existence. He wrapped his arms tight around Geralt's bare, brawny torso. He nestled his damp face against Geralt's neck. Geralt hugged him as tightly with both arms. Buried that handsome face in the crook between his neck and shoulder. Gently grasped his nape.

It took him a long time to realize the tapping of Geralt's fingers on his skin followed his heartbeat.

Geralt was listening to his renewed heart. Memorizing its beats.

He smiled with a face that no longer crumpled, that was drying. He pressed his ear to Geralt's neck. He listened to his witcher's languid heartbeat.

It was the sound of solace, of sanctuary. Of his eternal summer.

Geralt took his hand and led him to a bed as sumptuous as the Countess'. Geralt quietly watched him while he stripped off his doublet, his rumpled shirt, and kicked away his boots. Geralt removed his own boots.

Neither of them removed their breeches. Not tonight, a time for tender words.

They crawled into bed and lied under the blankets, facing each other, their legs tangled, the tips of their noses almost brushing.

Jaskier didn't shiver. He didn't feel cold at all.

For him, despite the snow, spring was already here.

The summer sun was already here in his arms.

In the morning, while the snow fell and fell, they would make love for the first time, writhing under the blankets, chuckling together.

In the morning, afterwards, while ambling through the manor together, Jaskier would see the Countess sitting on a stone bench in the courtyard. He would see, sitting beside her, also wrapped in a cloak, a balding, stout man significantly shorter than her. Shallow souls would judge him unworthy of her attentions simply for one of those aspects.

But they wouldn't see the way the man beamed and kissed her hand with joy. They wouldn't see his teary eyes. They wouldn't see the way she held him close in her strong arms to feel his heart beat. They wouldn't know that, for her, the sun and moon rose in this man's eyes—and that made him beautiful, and every part of him worthy of love as they were.

Jaskier understood: people had recoiled before from Geralt, from his amber eyes, white hair, and numerous scars. From the very things he cherished so much about his beloved witcher.

The stars shone in Geralt's eyes. Every part of Geralt was worthy of love as they were.

But it wasn't morning yet. The moon still smiled upon them, and they were safe and warm, and they saw each other in the firelight.

Jaskier carded his fingers through long, white hair he would recognize anywhere in the world, by sight or touch.

"Tell me everything," he murmured.

Geralt's eyes crinkled once more. Jaskier felt a callused, large hand rest on his flank under the blankets, caressing its smooth length. They gazed at each other with eyes warmer than summer sunshine.

"I started down the mountain alone," Geralt said. "I tried looking for you."

He let Geralt's low, gravelly voice roll over him in comforting waves. He listened, and memorized, and smiled tenderly as Geralt told a story in the awkward, adorable way only his witcher could.

He was happy hearing the stories directly from Geralt again.

He was happy.

**FIN**


	2. Bonus Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Geralt strides out of the banquet hall, he can't bring himself to leave Countess de Stael's manor--to leave Jaskier, having found him again. The Countess finds him lingering, and has an enlightening conversation with him about the bard they both cherish.

Staring down at the carpeted floor like he was, Geralt's first detection of Countess de Stael with his heightened senses was of her even, substantial footsteps. She was striding out of the banquet hall. Alone.

Now she was striding down the torchlit passageway.

Towards him.

She had a steady, powerful heartbeat. A beat worthy of a seasoned fighter. Geralt had no doubt that very few things in this world quickened it with fear.

He also had no doubt that Jaskier was probably one of the very few precious things in this world that quickened it with love.

He slowly raised his head as she approached him. Pushed himself off the stone wall, and turned as slowly to stand facing her.

She was in a dress as resplendent as Jaskier's outfit was, crafted of blue, luxurious silk that his meager pouch of coins could never hope to purchase.

She was taller than him by several inches, even after he straightened his spine. She didn't think twice about using that advantage to loom over him. To make a blatant, immediate point about her stature in more ways than one.

"Countess de Stael," he said, gazing up at her.

"Geralt of Rivia," she greeted in return with a low, resonant voice that vibrated with authority. "I've heard so much about you."

He opened his mouth to speak.

"Although—"

He pressed his lips tight at her wide eyes, her feigned polite expression.

"Not a word from Julian." Her fair, shapely eyebrows shot up her high forehead. "Despite him having known you for half his lifetime."

Geralt's lips quirked up in a tiny, genuine smile. He appreciated the purging of useless small talk, and her cutthroat candor. Score to her for the first brutal blow.

Not that he was going to reveal it to her. The pain was his to ensconce deep within him.

He wasn't here to pick a fight with the Countess—who Jaskier _wasn't_ going to marry.

He was here to give his penance.

"I didn't invite you to the banquet."

Her feigned expression was gone. Her full lips were curled at the tips, but her wide, silvery eyes were as lethal as whetted blades. Their unblinking stare would have crushed a lesser man into the ground.

Geralt was no ordinary man. He was much wiser than to tempt the ire of this fiery goddess in human form.

He lowered his eyes with sincere respect.

"Forgive me for my trespass. But—" He raised his eyes to meet hers again. "I had to be here."

"Why?"

The question, stated with such vehemence, was akin to a battering ram colliding into his chest at full speed.

He remained standing.

He could lie. He could say that he simply wanted to catch a glimpse of Jaskier, who he hadn't seen since their—confrontation on the mountain. That all he needed was to see him, hear him sing. Then he would go.

And he would return to Kaer Morhen alone, and see Ciri's face fall.

 _You'll bring Jaskier back. He's family. We're going to be a family_ , she'd said him at the fortress' gates weeks ago, while hugging him. _It's destiny._

He'd been glad that she was so much shorter and smaller than him. That she couldn't see his blink. The bobbing of his throat.

The young princess of Cintra was so much braver than him. So full of hope and faith. Of wisdom—for she had seen his true feelings for Jaskier long before he himself did. She'd been the sole person he felt secure enough to talk to about Jaskier. Under the stars, by the campfire.

His Wolf brothers, as close as they were to him—especially Eskel—were not those he would dare confess to about how much he'd regretted those cruel, selfish words he'd spat at Jaskier. About how he'd searched for Jaskier. How he would turn without a thought, calling for Jaskier. How, upon turning and glancing around, confused over why Jaskier wasn't answering him—he would find no one standing there.

Then he would remember all over again that Jaskier was gone. That Jaskier had walked away from him.

Because it was the blessing he'd claimed to wish for.

It was his own fault that he was alone again. That he had lied.

It was his own fault, really, that he'd been too much of a dunce to realize what the constant pain in his chest meant—until Ciri had smacked him on the head with both hands.

He'd gaped at her, rubbing his head.

She'd exclaimed, _You're an idiot!_

He'd reared up, ready to retort that he was a century-old witcher and—

_You've been in love with Jaskier for so long!_

He'd understood the tremendous power of words then. He'd stared at Ciri, robbed of his own.

But he had his many memories.

He had his many, many memories of Jaskier. Of Jaskier walking beside him and Roach down countless open roads. Jaskier, bathing him, and combing his washed hair, and rubbing chamomile oil onto his aching muscles after yet another ferocious battle with yet another monster or three. Jaskier, gently cleansing his wounds, stitching them neatly. Jaskier, leaving such permanent impressions of himself upon his scarred mutant body.

Upon that beating, fractured thing in his chest, that never truly knew fear—until he lost Jaskier.

Jaskier: his best friend.

Jaskier: his very best friend in the whole wide world, who had gazed past his notorious reputation and seen the person he was. Who had loved him as he was.

Had—past tense.

And for good reason.

"I wronged him," Geralt murmured in the present to Countess de Stael. "I hurt him."

It was true. He'd looked Jaskier in the eye while he'd spat those lies. With his heightened senses, he had easily heard the hammering of Jaskier's heart in shock. Had heard Jaskier's breaths go ragged with a pain he understood now.

Smelled the salty wetness in Jaskier's eyes.

The Countess' wide eyes were whetted blades that craved to hack him to gory pieces.

"Ample reason for me to have you removed from my property, witcher," she said very calmly. "By any means necessary."

Geralt wisely said nothing. She tilted her head.

"Julian is important to me."

Geralt had to check himself from slumping, from sighing in relief. She wasn't commanding her guards to drag him away. Or kill him.

He still had a smidgen of a chance.

"He is important to me as well," he said, and every word was true.

She smirked.

"But not in the same way, hm?"

Geralt could choose lie at this juncture. He could smile and just say no, nothing more. Or he could tell the truth, no matter how much it would hurt, or how it would be akin to him pulling out the beating, fractured, _hopeful_ thing in his chest and showing it in the light.

"No, not in the same way." Geralt looked her in the eye with unguarded amber ones. His lips quirked up in a bittersweet smile. "You will go on, whole-hearted, without him."

He could pinpoint the instant she comprehended his play of words. His baring of his soul with seven words.

She blinked hard, with surprise, with something warm that gradually thawed her ice-cold features.

She regarded him in contemplative silence for a long minute. He stood in place while she did so, lowering his eyes again to stare sightlessly at a silk flower sewn on her dress.

"Our dear Julian," she murmured. "Sweet Julian, who shows his heart in all his songs. In everything he says and does."

Geralt angled his head in agreement, his smile brighter.

"But he never gave it away."

Geralt made eye contact with her again. She gave him a meaningful look.

"Well," she added, raising one eyebrow. "That was what I'd thought."

Her expression turned austere, although it was a shadow of the fierceness before. The warmth lingered in her eyes.

"Did you know? That he gave you the most precious part of him?"

Geralt swallowed hard.

"No."

Her unblinking stare pinned him like a butterfly to a cork-board.

"But now?"

He stared back at her, an enduring bastion in his own right. An enduring man, with enduring hope in his enduring heart.

Jaskier hadn't looked him in the eye when he'd said he didn't care about him.

Jaskier still cared about him.

Jaskier still cared.

He hadn't broken Jaskier beyond salvation with his past malice, and he was thankful for _that_.

Whatever it was that the Countess saw in his eyes, writ across his face, it satisfied her as an answer to her firm question.

"I have been told that it will snow heavily tomorrow. Difficult conditions for you to travel."

Geralt imitated her deadpan, innocuous expression: he widened his eyes and raised his eyebrows.

"Yes."

"You may stay here tonight."

His forehead creased. It was kind of her to offer. But—where would Jaskier be? Was Jaskier going to flee the manor, knowing he was here? Was Jaskier going to flee the city, and vanish out there in the Continent, beyond his reach—

"Julian is staying here for the foreseeable future." She paused. "He isn't going anywhere." She paused again, and gave him a very pointed look. "Well, unless someone changes his mind on that." Her lips curled with restrained amusement. "We both know how he longs for adventure—and especially for those willing to ride beside him on the open roads of the Continent."

A minuscule part of Geralt hated her for feeding him that much hope. The rest of him howled long and low with joy.

The constant pain in his chest was gone.

It had disappeared without a trace the moment he'd heard Jaskier sing.

"Thank you, Lady de Stael."

Her amused smile grew.

Ah, his very subtle jab at the beginning of their conversation had not passed her notice.

She took one step forward. Then another, and then she was towering over him, still smiling. She leaned down. Her wide eyes blazed with a palpable warning that only the dead could not heed.

"If you ever break his heart again," she said very, very calmly, "I'll crush your skull between my bare hands, and throw your flesh to the wolves."

She didn't blink. Neither did he. His lips quirked up in a tiny, pleased smile. He liked her. He could see why Jaskier loved her.

"I'll let you," he replied, and he absolutely meant it.

Death was no different from breaking Jaskier's heart again and losing the beautiful, sweet man forever.

He and the Countess stared unblinkingly at each other for a few more seconds. She ended the face-off with a step back. She took another step back. Another, then another.

"It was a pleasure to meet and know you, Geralt of Rivia."

She was a radiant woman when she allowed her smile to illuminate her entire face.

Years ago, Jaskier had said the same thing to him about his smile.

It wasn't too late.

It wasn't too late for him to give his penance to Jaskier. To give Jaskier all the illuminating smiles he wanted. To make amends for the rest of his life, if that was what Jaskier asked of him.

"The feeling is mutual, Lady de Stael."

He let his smile spread across his face. It expanded even more as he watched her saunter away. He couldn't sense the floor beneath his feet. He felt like he was floating.

Jaskier was here. Jaskier still sang wonderfully. Jaskier still cared about him.

And, of course, Jaskier had excellent tastes in women.

**FIN**


End file.
